


I'll take it one day at a time

by softgrungeprophet



Series: Settling down, it takes time [3]
Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse)
Genre: Canon Related, Feelings, Friendship/Love, M/M, Wyatt POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: It wasn't as though it never snowed down in Oklahoma, uncommon as it was. But something about New York snow felt different. The frequency, the weight, the bone-chill.Something about the way everything got so quiet, so calm... This monochrome of falling white lending a silver-gray cast to everything, almost like life turned into a black and white photograph except for the rusty pink clouds. He leaned his forehead against the cold window just a moment, breath fogging the glass as he stared out at the fat snowflakes drifting down from the sky.-Wyatt Wingfoot, living with the Fantastic Four again, is confronted with the strength of his feelings.
Relationships: Johnny Storm/Wyatt Wingfoot
Series: Settling down, it takes time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613767
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> JohnnyxWyatt playlist I made that I listened to a lot writing this: [link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3NT6uGJUl0TBsEvYZWMIdf)  
> Yes I have a Chill Cover of a beach boy's song on here don't judge me it's the vibes
> 
> Title from the 1975's "[fallingforyou](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W3JJxS0gNkE)," which is on said playlist.  
> 
> 
> Timeline note: Wyatt's been living with them since Ben and Alicia's marriage or THEREABOUTS in this AU. it diverges from canon roughly at a point not long after War of the Realms, but before all the recent space stuff, but this fic doesn't take place until a few months after that--in the middle of winter.

Though he should have been used to it by now, snow still amazed Wyatt, sometimes.

It wasn't as though it _never_ snowed down in Oklahoma, uncommon as it was. But something about New York snow felt different. The frequency, the weight, the bone-chill.

Something about the way everything got so quiet, so calm... This monochrome of falling white lending a silver-gray cast to everything, almost like life turned into a black and white photograph except for the rusty pink clouds. He leaned his forehead against the cold window just a moment, breath fogging the glass as he stared out at the fat snowflakes drifting down from the sky.

He needed to get back to packing, though.

Still, with the radio on—Christmas covers, crooning—and the snow outside, it was all he could do not to drift into periods of stillness.

Just watching, some belonging forgotten in his hand as he sat on the edge of his bed.

A quick knock roused him from his reverie and he looked toward the bedroom door—

"Johnny." With his knuckles resting against the doorframe.

"What are you listening to? Michael Bublé?" Teasing, slightly. Johnny pushed away from the door and swept into Wyatt's room, to lean against his desk. He glanced to the window, and the falling snow. A slight smile before he caught Wyatt's eye again. Wearing his Fantastic Four leather jacket—the one with the little 4 on the back—and slim black jeans.

Wyatt couldn't seem to get his brain to connect to his mouth so he just nodded, mutely.

Johnny scrutinized him, some barely-hidden softness in his eyes. "You're gonna miss dinner."

With a shrug, Wyatt cleared his throat, and muttered, "I don't see why we're going out. I'm only going to be gone for three weeks..."

"It's fun!" With a breezy sort of smile Johnny moved to take Wyatt's hands—pulled him away from his half-packed suitcase, off of his bed. Johnny stood a little taller than usual, in boots that gave him a good few inches in the heel. "And since you won't be here for Christmas _or_ Hanukkah, well, what else are we supposed to do?! We can't just let you go with nothing!"

" _We_? Or just you?" Wyatt smiled, himself, and let Johnny tug him toward the door with only a half-hearted, "Anyway, I'm not done packing—"

Johnny laughed.

"Get your sweater and let's _go_!"

It was a good laugh.

***

"Alright, kids; you're both teenagers, don't you think you ought to let Wyatt go?"

Wyatt laughed, with Franklin and Valeria each hanging from an arm. If he weren't 6'6" they would have been too tall to do this now, but as it stood—"Just like when you two were little, huh?"

A year ago.

Reluctantly, Franklin dropped to the ground, though Val wiggled a little, stubbornly. Threatening to pout.

"You're as bad as Johnny!" Sue shook her head.

Finally, Valeria let go.

She gave Wyatt a quick hug and then stepped away with the smoothest of composures. She was _thirteen_ after all. Like Reed said, a teenager, and she had to pull that aloofness. But she didn't move away when Sue stroked her hair out of her face.

Wyatt gave out a few more hugs, a friendly hand clasp from Reed—

"C'mere, lemme get in on this!"

Wyatt wheezed slightly as Ben lifted him up in the air in a crushing embrace.

"You're as bad as Jen—" He could practically feel his bones creaking. "Backbreaking!"

"Yes!" Johnny laughed. "Now you know what it's like!"

Regaining his breath once released, Wyatt grinned. He reached out to Johnny's shoulder—a respectfully non-bone-crushing distance—and Johnny rolled his eyes and threw his arms around Wyatt's shoulders. Wyatt squeezed him, lifting him off the ground just a little bit, just so the tips of his boots barely scratched the dusty sidewalk outside of his sister's house.

Quietly, so only Wyatt could hear, Johnny murmured, "I already miss you."

"May I reiterate," Wyatt let him down. "It's only winter break."

Johnny pouted just like his niece had, only partially serious, crossing his arms. "I only have one other friend!"

He said it like a joke but it was clear there was some little nagging sting embedded in that, under his façade. Wyatt frowned. He couldn't fathom only really having two or three people in his life aside from family. It sounded... difficult. Not that he was really as close to anyone as he was to Johnny and Jen. Becky, maybe. Alright, so maybe he knew what it was like more than he'd realized. 

"I'll see you in a few weeks." Wyatt reached up—messed up Johnny's hair with a smile, and picked up his bags to head inside.

The Four (and then some) waved goodbye, and he stood on the porch for just a moment to watch them pile into the Fantasticar before the recently-added convertible glass roof folded up over them. How lucky Wyatt was, to not only skip an expensive plane ride, but have a whole retinue to escort him home for the winter...

And off they went, zipping away, leaving a wake of dust and leaves behind them... and a handful of awestruck children.

"I'm shocked they didn't stay behind so your blond boyfriend could give the kids autographs."

Wyatt turned to his sister—standing in the open doorway—with a sigh. "He's not my boyfriend, Rain."

She scoffed. "Right, that's why you talk about him _constantly_."

"Can't I talk about my friends?"

Rain raised a single eyebrow. "You never talked about Jen _nearly_ as often." She lowered her voice to mutter, "Or anyone else."

Maybe that was true.

 _Maybe_.

Johnny still wasn't his boyfriend.

"Alright, laugh it up." Wyatt nudged past her.

She did laugh, and grabbed one of his bags for him.

***

"These are missing something."

Rain spoke somewhat brusquely, in an effort to appear less soft-hearted than she was, but Wyatt couldn't bring himself to be particularly annoyed. She was right. No one cooked like their grandmother had, least of all him, though he tried. How he tried (and failed).

He sat at the table with Rain, and sighed. "I know." Stretched out his legs, sore from being cramped up in the Fantasticar on the ride down. "I can't figure it out... It's her recipe, but it's just... different."

"Maybe a missing ingredient." Rain laughed under her breath. " _Love_."

Wyatt shook his head in disbelief. "Are you implying I don't cook with love?"

"Mmmmm..." Rain chewed her way thoughtfully through a bit of bread before saying, "Maybe."

"Awful." Wyatt couldn't help but laugh, though. "My own sister... just awful."

She smiled.

After dinner, they sat on the porch together, sipping some mulled apple cider despite the fairly mild weather. The moon was wide and the skies clear and full of stars as Rain said, quietly, "Wynona's not going to be able to make it this year."

"How's she been?" Wyatt leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky.

Briefly, he caught a shooting star with his eye, a little streak of light there and then gone.

"She's been going to school in Ohio, I think. For her master's." Rain took a peaceful breath of the night air. "Haven't been keeping in touch as often as I should. Her dad moved them out there. Packed everything up."

Wow. "Just packed up and moved?"

Rain snorted. "Don't act like you didn't do the same exact thing, city boy."

"Hey, now..." Wyatt frowned a little. "Maybe." He let himself lay down against the wood of the porch, vision taken up by the overhang of the roof. "Yeah, maybe. Look, I'm sorry. For being so... I feel like I've let a lot of people down, over and over again, and I'm sorry for being so unreliable."

A noncommittal hum. Rain set her empty mug aside and flopped down beside him. She let out a gentle huff, folding her arms behind her head. "You're always there when it matters most."

She paused.

"I don't know how you can stand to run around so much, though. Just being on the city council is enough excitement for me—I can't imagine what you get up to."

"Ah, you get used to it."

"Right..." Rain reached a leg out to nudge him. "I think that's just you, Wyatt."

He laughed.

Maybe it _was_ just him. Maybe other people _preferred_ their responsibilities and the mundanity of day to day life. Well—it wasn't that he didn't find value in those things. He'd like to settle down one day, with a family. He liked a nice day in, reading and watching the Richards kids or babysitting for a neighbor. He liked the feeling that he could help people or do something meaningful without necessarily needing to mix it up with a bunch of goons—teaching, after all, was one of the more fulfilling things he'd ever done and it wasn’t all that exciting aside from the occasional temper tantrum or stomach bug.

But while Rain couldn't imagine what he got up to with the Fantastic Four, _he_ couldn't really imagine staying in Oklahoma, or following in his grandfather's footsteps, as much as he'd tried (and tried and tried). He couldn't imagine a life without a bit of unpredictability, adventure, the freedom to come and go whenever and wherever he wanted... Couldn't imagine a life without the city lights or... or a life without the friends he'd made there, up in New York.

The FF, Jennifer...

Johnny.

Even still...

"It's nice to be back home..."

"Yeah." Rain sighed. "It's nice to have you."

***

Wyatt and Becky hauled groceries from her car to her grandparents' house; to other homes, for old women who'd long been left alone or the elderly whose family couldn't be there for the holidays. Or just people who needed help. Families going through rough patches, disabled folks, and so on.

There was a nip in the air, though Wyatt wasn't too cold, and clouds gathered overhead. Maybe it would rain.

"You know," Becky grunted as she took a turkey under her arm. "I used to be in love with you."

Well, alright. That was one way to start a conversation.

"What brought this on?" Wyatt laughed, his own arms occupied with a box full of canned fruit and vegetables.

She smirked, skipping ahead. Spun on her heel on the doorstep and said, "Well, I don't know! You're awfully handsome! I guess seeing your face again just reminded me!"

Wyatt rolled his eyes but shot her a teasing smile. "And I suppose you still think of me on restless nights?"

With a snort, Becky manhandled the door open. "You _wish_." She kicked her way inside with a "Ho ho ho! It's Rebecca and Wyatt, here with your groceries, Ms. Smith!"

"Oh my, is that little Wyatt Wingfoot? My eyes have gone but I'd know that silhouette anywhere!"

Wyatt laughed, setting the box of canned goods on the counter with a thunk and opening his arms for old Ms. Smith to totter over and give him a hug. He patted her back, and pulled away. Old Indigo Smith, at least 80 years old by now and still around with her odd blue eye.

"How are you?"

She patted his arm, all grandmotherly. "Well, you know, just minding myself as usual. And when are you two getting married, hm?"

Becky groaned, hunched over in the cupboard to put things away. She popped her head out, stormy but not fully serious, mostly playful, as she said, "It's not gonna happen, old lady! I've moved on!" She stuck her head back into the cupboard, muffled, probably not meant to be heard as she muttered, "I don't have a strap-on, anyway."

" _Rebecca_." Wyatt felt the heat tingling up the back of his neck, no doubt blushing ear to ear with a can of peaches in each hand.

Ms. Smith tittered to herself, a quiet little "Oh my."

Becky leaned out to wink at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's try this again... Biting the bullet and just posting this whether I'm satisfied with it or not. 
> 
> I'm not sure if this chapter is in Tulsa or Lawton—I decided somewhere along the line that Roberta Elk-Step (grandma) lived in Tulsa but grandpa lived in Lawton and I like the idea that Rain has grandma's house. My idea was that Wyatt mostly grew up in Tulsa and went to high school there, living with his grandma after his parents died, but he visited his grandfather in Lawton.
> 
> decided val is 13 and franklin is around 18 (factoring in their 5 years in a different dimension). honestly idfk originally I was using 10 and 15 but then I tried to redo some math and I just. cry a little. comics! sob


	2. Chapter 2

"I'll see you soon—March, maybe—" Wyatt waved at Rain, walking backwards from the front porch as the Fantasticar hovered over the road.

She waved back, a sunny yellow cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders as she called, "You better!"

Wyatt turned away from her and—with Reed's help, one long arm reaching out—hauled his suitcases into the car. He hopped in and settled down. It was just Reed and him this time, everyone else back in New York. Spacious, as the cover rolled up over their heads in the convertible hovercar... Wyatt strapped himself in and asked, "How's everyone back home?"

"Fine, for the most part." Reed glanced at the dashboard as they lifted off into the sky. "Sleeping off an astonishing battle." He twisted his neck in that unsettling way he had, to look at Wyatt briefly before returning his attention to the readings. "Be glad you missed it."

Wyatt raised his eyebrows. "That bad?"

A quiet hum was all he got in response, Reed clearly distracted.

After a few minutes of silent flying, though, he murmured, "You remember when Johnny died."

A statement, not a question.

And how could Wyatt forget?

Wyatt held, as some point of pride, his ability to face tragedy with rationality and composure. His grandparents, years apart; they had been old and it was inevitable even if sad, even if he still missed them, late nights. Even if his grandmother went too soon despite that. His parents, well, he couldn't remember them very well. Perhaps when he was five and his mother died he had broken down crying, as children do.

Jen... With Jen, so much had been happening all at once he never got the chance to dwell on it before she came right back.

But Johnny... Johnny...

"I try not to dwell on it, actually."

One of the lower periods of his life (one of several), less than a year though it had lasted.

Reed laughed bitterly. "Yes, I don't blame you." He fiddled with something on the Fantasticar with one stretched arm. "Anyhow, it's not so much _that_ I wanted to bring up. More that..." He glanced over his shoulder. "Well, the things that happened to Johnny when he was in the Negative Zone."

Right. Wyatt knew vaguely, not full specifics. He knew, at least, not to watch documentaries about centipedes, and when to wake in the middle of the night—a second sense, practically—to find Johnny shaking silently in bed. When to just... sit with him. (And sometimes, awkwardly, Johnny would do the same for him.)

Unbothered by Wyatt's silence Reed continued, "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that Johnny's somewhat raw at the moment, and I don't want you to be surprised if he's... standoffish when you get home."

Standoffish. Right.

"I see." Wyatt watched the landscape beneath them roll and blur together. The interior of the Fantasticar was miraculously quiet. Some feat of sealing, engineering, Johnny's skill. "I'll try to tread carefully, then."

"Right."

They lapsed into silence.

***

The hallway was dark, but the motion sensors flicked on. No hello from Johnny, just the muffled sound of music through the wall as Wyatt came upstairs. Reed bade him a quiet "goodnight," and he raised his hand in response as he fumbled the door to the suite open.

He felt such a weariness—the Fantasticar was nice but, while capable of crossing the country as fast as any plane, it lacked in the kind of comforts suited to multi-hour travel.

His bedroom light flicked on automatically and he hauled his stuff over to the closet. Did he want to put it away now? Not particularly, he'd much rather have taken a nap. But he sat down and got to work anyway.

Just as Wyatt put away the last of his things, a soft rustle drew his attention to his open bedroom door.

Johnny, watching him, holding the doorframe like maybe he'd been trying to hide behind it. Sort of haunted, a pale blonde ghost artificially lit, the bags under his eyes almost lavender.

"Hey." Wyatt stood, pushing his empty suitcase to the side with his foot.

With a tight smile, Johnny nodded. He couldn't hold the smile, and it softened into a worn-out frown.

"Spying?" Wyatt offered a smile of his own, genuine but concerned. "You look tired."

Johnny made a face, a little of his usual humor in there—even Wyatt couldn't always tell when he was faking, and this was no exception. He slunk out into the open, wandering over to sit on the foot of Wyatt's bed, stretching his legs out. "You look tired too."

Wyatt shrugged.

In lieu of reaching out to touch Johnny, uncertain what kind of a headspace he was in, Wyatt put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. Just eyeing him from a respectable distance.

Johnny bounced his feet a little, not quite meeting Wyatt's eye. A little lost in thought, seemingly.

Finally, he sighed, and flopped onto his back, arms outspread. He still looked so distant, head barely turned to the side and gazing at the open air. After a few seconds of staring, he murmured, "I missed you."

Wyatt raised his eyebrows. He moved closer, sitting next to Johnny on the edge of his bed. Slowly, he reached out. As gentle as possible—but Johnny tensed, slightly, when Wyatt's fingers brushed his shoulder. Very still. Like he was waiting for something to happen. Wyatt pulled away. Stood again, and headed for his dresser.

As he pulled open his drawers in search of pajamas, he could hear Johnny stand. The barely audible _shff_ of his pants as he walked past Wyatt, to the door.

"Hey, uh." Johnny hesitated in the doorway. "G—Goodnight."

Wyatt spared him a glance—not that their eyes met, Johnny closing off once again into that little ghost. He sighed and said, "Goodnight, Johnny."

***

In the night, Wyatt dreamed.

Everything flowed in that disconnected way dreams did. A conversation with Reed, though Wyatt couldn't quite make out his face or his words. Mundane. The kind of conversation one might have over breakfast, reading the newspaper—all a little strange, with some of Reed's lab equipment stacked on the table.

Reed turned into Ben, and it fit a little better together as he turned the pages of the paper and said, "I got a lotta regrets, ya know. Lotta things I fucked up real bad. But I got a lotta good in my life too an' I wouldn't change that for the world."

Wyatt's brain supplied an almost Bugs Bunny-esque cadence to that—wrong locale, but Wyatt was a Southern boy at heart, and his brain didn't know Brooklyn from Chicago from Jersey most days. Certainly not in this dreaming state.

"Listen, kid." Dreamscape Ben folded up his paper and set it aside on some shadowy, unseen, implied furniture that Wyatt knew implicitly to be a side table. "Ya wait too long, it'll all fall away. Like sand, right? Sand in a sinkhole."

Wyatt couldn't speak, in his dream, for some reason. He just sat there, probably. He didn't feel like he had a body, really. He kind of preferred that, in some strange way.

"Make a move, or ya lose him."

He couldn't lose him... (not again.)

In some shift, some it-had-always-been-this-way change, Ben was gone, and Wyatt had a physical form, and he stood in this field of dry, yellow grass, surrounded by perfect rows of generic headstones. Rows, and rows, and rows. Straight lines of granite. He couldn't see words on any of them, or read them, but he knew the names they held within—those of his grandfather, his grandmother, his mother and father, repeated infinitely... and Jen, too. He could feel that. She was buried there, under the ground, along with all the rest of his family.

"Wyatt."

He turned, and behind him was his grandfather.

Stern, and old, and his grandmother at the same time. Separate and together, sort of holding hands but sort of not. Not quite making sense in Wyatt's brain, crossed wires. One of them said, "When are you getting married?" and the other said, "The woman, you loved her."

His grandfather had died before Wyatt even met Jen.

"I know." He stood, uncertain what to do with himself. "I should have..." He should have what?

He'd come and gone and come and gone to her, the only woman in his life, and it still never went the way it was supposed to. Wheels spinning in the mud as they deflected each other just barely. Magnets of two poles, double sided, pushing and pulling and circling each other until they broke away and Wyatt found himself in New York City again but this time not in her arms.

This time drawn into the concrete jungle for his own reasons, but then... for others, too.

"I should..."

His grandparents shook their heads slightly out of sync, some air of sympathy hanging around them.

"Such a late bloomer."

"I'm sorry." He crossed his arms. "I'm sorry for being this way."

Too big, too flighty, too dreamy, too skeptical, too tall, too many other things.

They reached out to touch him, to stroke his cheek, simultaneously, "You have no reason to apologize" and "Are you ashamed of who you are?"

Ashamed...

They were gone.

"Wyatt?"

Familiar.

Where was he?

The Baxter building. The old one, before it was lifted into space, before its foundation was ripped to pieces.

"Wyatt!"

"Johnny?" Wyatt turned again, the starry bright blue sky in the periphery of his vision—unusual, to see stars in downtown New York. In daylight, no less.

Johnny stood in the wreckage—no, it was just the lobby now. Slick and pristine. The stars just little LED lights overhead. He stood there, at the top of the stairs (were those new?), and he smiled at Wyatt. He looked... radiant. Glowing, slightly, with tiny licks of flame across his smooth skin and hand-swept hair, across his immaculate blue shirt. He'd worn that the first week of college, the collar popped, with his neatly pressed khakis. Bathed in gentle flames, it looked so much more elegant. Johnny's eyes glittered with a deep, burning ember red as he held out his hand and said Wyatt's name again.

Wyatt took a step toward him—

He burst into flame, clothes gone in a moment as his body became that beautiful thing of plasma and heat, a tower of curling orange fire twisting up from his heart and his head. He held his hand out empty, statuesque as he looked down at Wyatt with a serene smile, a painfully familiar sight, and Wyatt stepped up toward him. Pulled him into a tight embrace, curling in on him.

They were sitting on the floor. No more fire, no more calling his name. Wyatt sat with Johnny cradled in his arms, the empty walls watching him as he clung to Johnny's body, which he'd never seen. Which they hadn't even had, for the funeral. Cold, too cold, like marble, and unmoving, and paler than it had any right to be and—Wyatt cried.

All he could do was hold on tight and shake like a mountain in an earthquake, wrapped around Johnny desperately—

A crash ripped Wyatt from his sleep in that broken way loud noises do, leaving him disoriented with his heart pounding in his chest as he gathered his awareness around him—smaller thuds as he centered himself and realized what was happening. Well... at least, he realized where the sound was coming from. There were no voices, and the crashing stopped, as he rolled out of bed and made his quiet way from his threshold to Johnny's.

Through the tightly shut door, a soft curse.

"Johnny?"

Silence.

"I'm opening the door."

A wave of commingling scents—florals and fruits and spices and musk and metallic artificial stinging—threatened to overwhelm him. He covered his face with his shirt to block out the smell of twenty different perfumes and pushed through the doorway.

Johnny sat on the floor, smoldering slightly, surrounded by broken glass bottles and shards of the mirror from his toppled vanity, with his head between his knees. Miraculously, none of the pools of perfumes spreading across his floor had caught fire, and the last embers on his skin dimmed into nothing as he finally took a shaky breath and sobbed.

"Hey..." Wyatt knelt beside him, reaching one hand out, waiting to be sure Johnny wouldn't pull away. The stench made him dizzy, but he gripped Johnny's shoulder and swallowed back his encroaching headache. "Johnny, what's wrong?"

Johnny had seemed so... deceptively fine lately. Until tonight.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't get much of an answer, but Johnny did turn into his touch, groping up along his arm and latching himself onto Wyatt. Wyatt held his breath, and wrapped his arms around Johnny in an effort to pull him away from this mess, toward the doorway and the hallway light. Up, into his arms, out of the bedroom. He could breathe easier out here but Johnny himself reeked, trembling with his face pressed into Wyatt's chest and his hand balled up in Wyatt's shirt.

Wyatt winced, slightly, as he stepped into the bathroom. He must have stepped on a piece of broken glass, and whatever cologne or eau de parfum had coated the floor didn't help.

The bathroom illuminated automatically when it sensed him (like every light in the suite—in the entire building, really), and he carried Johnny over to the fainting couch in the lounge—because of course there was a _lounge_ and a _fainting couch_ —

And he just sat there for a moment with Johnny in his lap, a growing tearstain on his shirt as Johnny clung to him, wracked with uneven gasps.

God, what time was it?

Wyatt lay them down on the couch a little awkwardly, stretching his legs out off the edge and jostling Johnny slightly in his arms.

He still reeked, but Wyatt had been sleeping five minutes ago and he really wanted to go _back_ to sleep.

Gradually, Johnny settled, subsiding into sniffles, and then just slightly congested breathing on top of Wyatt. Somewhere along the line Wyatt had begun to rub Johnny's back, even circles in the dip of his spine. He felt himself drifting, soothed despite the slight throb in his foot. Johnny was warm, as always, seeping heat like a concentrated sunbeam, and it made Wyatt drowsy even with the cloud of floral-stagnant-citrus-steel franken-perfume enveloping them...

...Wyatt woke to a stinging pain on his foot—stretched himself out on the lounge with a groan—

"Whoa, hey!" Johnny grabbed his ankle, almost falling flat over. "Watch the face!"

"What are you doing?" Wyatt pushed himself up onto his elbows, careful not to kick Johnny in the face this time. "You have a foot fetish?"

"No!" Sat cross-legged on the floor beside the fainting couch, Johnny pulled a face, wrinkling his nose. 

He was wrapped up in a fluffy Fantastic Four bathrobe, hair damp and curling at his forehead, brandishing tweezers with a box of gauze in his lap and a small dish of water beside him. "You—you were bleeding and I-I thought, well. I should make that... not be happening."

His face had gone a little pink.

"Uh-huh." Wyatt smiled and lay back down with a huff. After a moment, he murmured, "Thanks."

Not really the best words to reflect the odd tug of emotion he felt, but close enough.

For a moment, everything was silent except for the fan in the actual bathroom, neither of them moving, until Johnny ventured a, "So..." He hesitated just a moment before bringing a damp piece of gauze to the cut on Wyatt's foot. The water had gotten cold, but he warmed it with his powers. Was gentle as he asked, "How is it that _I_ broke all the bottles, but _you're_ the one with glass in his foot, hm?"

Wyatt laughed, quietly, and mumbled, "Good question." He twitched his toes slightly, but the sting had mostly subsided now, into a dull throbbing. "I'm glad you're not hurt."

Johnny stood, suddenly, with his soapy water and his gauze and an alarmingly large piece of green (and red) glass in his hand. "Sorry, I'm gonna call Reed up or something. I don't know. I did my best but I... I think you need stitches? I-I'm sorry, this is my fault—"

Wyatt sighed and closed his eyes, settling in against the cushions a little further. "I've had worse."

Quiet, a brief hesitation... "Have you?"

He peeked one eye open, pursing his lips.

Johnny looked lost, staring at him with those big blue eyes of his.

He was asking a loaded question.

"Go get Reed."

Something in the way Johnny swallowed and ducked his head... "Y—yeah."

Then he was gone, and Wyatt dug the heels of his palms into his eyes with a sigh.

***

"What the hell are you _wearing_? You smell like a Sephora and an Abercrombie met in a back alley and made babies in a dumpster."

A colorful description of the lingering smell on Wyatt's skin... "Eau de Fire Hazard—" He cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee before continuing, "I spent an hour soaking up several thousand dollars' worth of perfume with Johnny this morning."

And hadn't had a chance to take a shower before his friend-date with Jen.

Jen let out a low whistle, crossing her legs as she leaned back with her own coffee in-hand. "What happened? Lover's spat? You find him with another man and break all his stuff?"

"Ha." Wyatt pressed his lips into a thin line, unamused both by her nonchalant attitude toward his close friendship with Johnny and at the idea that he would ever be that kind of man if they _were_ dating. "What do you take me for, some kind of _pig_?"

She smirked. "I know, I know." She reached out to take his hand, almost the same size, though she had those long piano-playing fingers. A gentler smile. "You've never been a jealous lover..."

He laced their fingers together. They hadn't been together in a long while, but there was something comforting in the easy way they could spend time together. Not quite like old days, but familiar and soothing.

"Who says I'm a lover?" He withdrew his hand to clasp his mug between his hands, feeling the soft heat through the thick ceramic.

Jen sighed, taking her own hand back to lean her jaw against as she eyed him. Somewhere between thoughtful, dreamy, and sad. "Wyatt..."

He shook his head, rueful. "I'm sorry, Jen. I should go..."

"Right." Jen took a breath, leaning back again. "See you later."

"I'll see you soon."

***

Johnny leaned over the back of the couch, as nonchalant and breezy as he always was, all done up behind his mask of everything-is-totally-fine. "How's your foot?" He dangled a bottle of iced tea over Wyatt's shoulder.

" _Much_ better." Wyatt accepted the offered drink with a smile, fingers brushing Johnny's just briefly in a way that filled him with a flood of warmth. "That healing gel Reed gave me is truly impressive."

Smiling, Johnny rolled over the back of the couch, onto the cushions beside Wyatt in an awkward pretzel with his legs up in the air for a moment—he unfurled himself, still awkward, half his body off the couch and only his upper back and head on. "So..."

Wyatt held his arm out, almost a reflex, for Johnny to pull himself up.

"So... what?"

"How'd your date with Jen go?" An impish grin, bringing his knees up, squeezing his arms around his shins. "Did you _kiss_?"

Wyatt's expression must have given him away, because he barely managed to sigh before Johnny's face fell and he asked, "It didn't go well?"

"It wasn't a date, Johnny. And it went well—I just had to leave early." Wyatt slung his arm around Johnny's shoulder, easy and loose, a movement that came naturally. "Certainly not a disaster to warrant that face—"

Johnny pouted, exaggerated and wide-eyed, and Wyatt laughed.

" _Stop_ , don't make that face at me—"

Johnny batted his eyelashes in an effort to seem even more pathetic, but he couldn't hold a straight face, and burst into a grin, snickering slightly.

"I swear..." Wyatt ruffled his hair, overcome by a smile himself. "You're too much, sometimes."

Softly, Johnny half-laughed, half-sighed, leaning away slightly. A quiet, "Yeah?" He didn't remove himself, though, just leaned back against the cushions with Wyatt's arm around him as he murmured, "Yeah, well, it's good your not-date didn't go too bad."

"...Yeah."

Wyatt pulled him closer against his side, and Johnny went without resistance, almost a perfect fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what I'm picturing for the johnny and wyatt suite is: there's a door with a sign for wyatt and johnny, and you open it and there are two doors facing each other and one is to wyatt's room and the other is to johnny's room, and between their rooms is a door to the lounge which opens up into the bathroom.
> 
> and the living room is the family living room in the rest of the house lol


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flirtation...

"What do you think?" Johnny turned slightly in front of Wyatt's mirror, straightening the hem of his baby blue cashmere sweater. "Too gay?"

Wyatt frowned, but spared Johnny a look, in between comparing one solid colored t-shirt with another.

"I know, I know, _everything_ looks gay on me—"

"Johnny." Wyatt interrupted before Johnny could find some way to degrade himself. "You look nice."

A touch of pink colored Johnny's cheeks, but he let out a startled puff. Ducked his head, with his hands on his hips. "Thanks."

Wyatt shook his head, and turned back to his shirts. "I just don't understand why you're using my mirror when there's an entire wall of them in the lounge."

Johnny laughed and walked over to Wyatt's bed so he could throw himself onto the sheets. "Well." He rolled onto his back, tastefully tousled, and said, "You know how lonely I get."

"In the _bathroom_?" Wyatt clucked his tongue and pulled his shirt off, reaching for a nice dark charcoal gray one instead. He held it up in front of his bare chest, tossing a playful look at Johnny. "Well, since you're in here, bless me with your fashion expertise—what color pants?"

With a sigh, Johnny sat up and eyed Wyatt. "How matchy do you want to be?"

Well, considering they were roommates meeting up with some friends for a nice, semi-casual dinner...

"No green today." Wyatt threw his shirt at Johnny.

Johnny caught it with his face and laughed, tugging it out of the way and messing up his hair even worse. "Right, 'cause of Jen." He leaned his elbows on his knees with a thoughtful hum. "Maybe brown?"

Classic, timeless, tasteful—well, maybe not _timeless_. Wyatt shifted a few things around in his closet and pulled out a pair of neutral brown chinos. He threw those at Johnny, too—Johnny, who yelped in indignation.

"Stop throwing your clothes at me!"

Wyatt leaned against his closet with his arms crossed, and smiled as disarmingly as he knew how. "Who, me?"

Clearly the charm worked, because Johnny made a pinched little face, trying to glare back despite the mirth sparkling in his eyes. Very obviously failing not to smile—he wrinkled his nose and grinned down at his lap, and at Wyatt's clothes. "Jerk."

Wyatt huffed.

He shut his closet and moved over to the bed, reaching for his clothes.

As he pulled his shirt down, he noticed Johnny staring at him.

"Like what you see?" Wyatt flexed one arm up in the air.

Johnny rolled his eyes, flopping onto his back again.

After a moment, when Wyatt thought he might not say anything at all—

"Just thinking."

Wyatt hummed, as he tugged his jeans off and switched to his chinos. "Overthinking."

"Shut up, hypocrite—" Johnny laughed. "I was just thinking..." He kicked his legs out. "When we met you were so... _cut_."

Wyatt straightened his pants and moved so he could get a good look at himself in the full-length mirror. "Yeah, I was." He flexed again, a little more seriously this time, just to see. "Biceps the size of cannonballs and a ten-pack to wash your laundry." His reflection gave a small, crooked smile.

The sheets rustled as Johnny sat up, just visible in the mirror. "I think your biceps are _still_ the size of cannonballs."

Fair.

"And you've still got killer abs." Johnny shrugged. "But you look... healthier now."

Wyatt caught his eye in the mirror, with a slight nod. "Yeah." He glanced down at himself, patting his stomach. "Had to buy all new pants, though."

Johnny scoffed. "God forbid you get new khakis every once in a while."

"Just because _you_ buy new jeans every Friday doesn't mean everyone else does." Wyatt smoothed his hair back into place, tucking a few flyaways back where they belonged, and turned to face Johnny with his hands on his hips, accusing. "How many pairs of skinny jeans do you own?"

Suspiciously silent, on Johnny's part. Suspiciously avoiding eye contact, though he finally grumbled, "How many pairs of _chinos_ do _you_ own?"

Touché.

Wyatt held up a finger. "How dare you." He did a quick mental inventory. "At least ten."

Johnny laughed and pushed himself to his feet. "Not counting the slightly different shades, I'm sure." He sauntered past and gave Wyatt a pat on the arm on his way to the door. Paused in the doorway and looked at Wyatt with a softness to his expression. "...You look nice, too."

Wyatt shook his head as Johnny left for the lounge bathroom.

He stood with his hands on his hips a moment, looking down at himself, and finally turned away from the mirror. Mouthed to himself, " _You look healthy_." Let out a sigh and pulled his hands down his face. "He said you look _nice_."

A moment's composure.

Wyatt reached for his cologne, next to his mirror—leathery and musky. He'd always felt it suited him, though Jen sometimes poked fun at him for using one of those manly-man scents on date night— _Like kissing a motorcycle jacket!_

Maybe so, but he liked it, and he liked the comfort it offered. Familiar, soothing, like riding in the passenger seat out driving with his grandfather as a kid, looking out the window to see the moon following them through the tall Oklahoma sky.

He grabbed a cream-colored sweater on his way out of the bedroom.

***

"Okay, okay, wait—" Peter struggled to collect himself, threatening to collapse into a fit of giggles at the slightest provocation. "So you—" He took a breath. "So you went on a _date_ with this guy?"

Jen let out a groan. "Ugh, yes, it was awful." She took a long drink from her massive georgia slammer sunrise before pulling a face and saying, "He asked me if my _boobs_ were real."

Peter snorted into his cosmo fizz—coughed a little, and Wyatt reached over to thump him on the back. He reached back, giving Wyatt an uncoordinated pat on the shoulder with a mumbled, "Thanks."

A lightweight.

Johnny sat across from Wyatt nursing his own drink, a custom concoction that had been served in flames but now simply swirled with flakes of gold peeping through the blue. What had it been...? White rum or something, edible glitter...? Gold-tinted metal straw in a handled mason jar. (Pretentious.)

Wyatt sipped at his second (third?) sloe gin negroni of the past thirty or forty or maybe it was fifty minutes and settled back as Jen hailed the waiter for more drinks and—more importantly—food.

Quite a place. Had a fully stocked, fully manned, extensive bar that took up a full wall, far nicer than the usual. Peddled as a Southern-style steakhouse, but oozing gentrification and unmarked prices, all glossy and slick against the charming boho-chic benches and filament lightbulbs. Service slower than a baked slug, but a bartender very quick to mix as many cocktails as the heart could desire, doling out generous portions faster than one could ask—often before finishing the previous drink.

Wyatt leaned his head back with a sigh, sliding down a bit and stretching his legs out.

Normally he didn't drink all that much, aside from the occasional beer or old fashioned.

Maybe he was a _little_ tipsy from the generously flowing drinks. Just a little bit. Enough to loosen him up.

Wyatt's knee hit Johnny's, his foot sliding under the bench, and he peered over at Johnny, down his nose. An awkward angle on his neck to be sure. Johnny seemed startled, just for a moment, but determined not to let it show. Straw firmly in his mouth, elbows planted on the table, slightly flushed either from alcohol or embarrassment as he stared straight down at his drink.

Wyatt nudged his thigh with an easy smile, and Johnny's gaze flitted up to him.

Jen seemed engrossed in asking the waitress as many questions as possible, Peter piping in with his own—let them deal with that. Wyatt focused on the fact that Johnny had maneuvered his own feet so he could catch Wyatt's leg with his ankles, trapping him there with a mischievous little grin, eyes bright like his drink.

"Earth to planet Venus." Jen snapped her fingers to get Wyatt's attention. "Stop flirting and order your food. You can play footsie later." Then, to Peter, "When did you say your wife was coming?"

Peter's response was lost in the background as Wyatt straightened up, clearing his throat and pulling his legs back into their proper place.

His order—"Fried okra steak, seared, please." Face and ears burning.

The waitress repeated that with a nod, and turned her attention to Johnny. "And you?"

Wyatt felt much colder without Johnny's knee brushing his.

***

Peter and MJ had left around 10, and Jen not 'til 11 drinking and chatting, and now it was just Johnny and Wyatt outside in the cold air, a tiny bit of snow beginning to fall. They huddled close, Wyatt's head bent toward Johnny, who radiated a soothing warmth into their shared airspace, leaning sleepily against Wyatt's chest as they waited for their rideshare.

"You're drunk..." Wyatt kept his voice low, coat and arms wrapped around Johnny snugly.

Johnny hummed, burrowing deeper into his open jacket even though he didn't need it. "So're you."

True. Wyatt couldn't burn it off like Johnny could. He reached one hand up to the back of Johnny's head. Johnny's breath tickled against his collarbone, and they both swayed a little together.

Quiet and hazy.

"You smell nice..."

Wyatt laughed quietly. "So do you."

(All smoky, spicy, floral...)

Johnny twisted, tilting his head back so he could look up at Wyatt a little cross-eyed. "I like it." He smiled.

" _I_ like _you_." Wyatt brushed a loose hair out of Johnny's face—all flushed and pink.

It would be so easy to just... lean down... Fit their mouths together...

"I want to kiss you..."

It went a little clumsier than in his imagination—he bumped Johnny's nose with his own, but he figured it out. Johnny raised a hand, taken aback, for a second like he might push Wyatt away. But his hand settled on Wyatt's shoulder, fisting into the wool of his coat. His lips were soft, as he kissed back, and slightly sweet from dessert. Citrus, and chocolate.

He was so, _so_ warm. Burning like a fever.

Wyatt broke from him reluctantly.

From Johnny, a soft and slightly more focused "Oh..."

Wyatt knew his face was flushed, in the light of the streetlamps, as he looked away.

Lots of twinkling lights, early January air steaming around their pocket of warmth. People out and about, here and there. Long coats and colorful scarves. Hurrying under the thickening snow.

Of course, not a single flake touched him or Johnny. Just evaporated.

Wyatt smiled, steadying himself slightly against Johnny.

Johnny leaned his forehead against Wyatt's collarbone.

Sighed.

Whispered, "We're gonna to be in the papers."

Oh.

A man stood an unsuspicious but still fairly close distance, wielding a camera and pretending to be absorbed in the dead branches of a streetside tree. Certainly paparazzi, certainly trying to get the juiciest scoop possible through the sheer veil of steam surrounding them. Hardly enough to stop a good camera like that.

The tabloids...

A pained expression tightened Johnny's face as he drew back from Wyatt. Reluctant. 

Wyatt had gone from pleasantly drunk and buzzing to sour and slightly nauseous.

"Let's go, I'm sure our ride's somewhere."

Wyatt nodded, and Johnny gave him a little push around. They linked arms and began to walk—just to get away from the man with the camera. Johnny pulled out his phone as they started up their circuit of the well-lit block. Voice quiet as he stuttered through asking if their driver could please come get them in a slightly different spot, no big deal, just a block away—

They posted up next to a tree still hung with holiday lights to wait for him to pull around.

***

Johnny fumbled with the lock to the front door of 4 Yancy Street, Wyatt unhelpful with the way he leaned heavily against it—but he got it, smushed between Wyatt and the door, and opened it, and Wyatt stumbled into the lobby with a grunt that turned into a quiet laugh.

Coordinating his feet with his brain... well they were just so far away from each other. He sat unsteadily to take off his shoes by the door, and Johnny waited for him patiently when it took him a little longer than usual to figure out how to untie his shoelaces. He shed his winter clothes and let them fall to the floor next to the coat rack.

"Okay." Wyatt ran his hand along the wall to steady himself as he walked to the stairs, Johnny just ahead of him, constantly looking back with this... expression Wyatt couldn't place—all the way up into the hallway, through the doorway into their suite, and then Johnny stood there looking a little hesitant, like he didn't know where to go.

Like he wanted to say something.

With a grin, Wyatt asked, "You lost?"

Johnny, in his cashmere sweater, leaned against the wall with his head tilted to the side. "Nah." He smiled to himself and shook his head, turning away from Wyatt, toward his bedroom door. "I'll see you in the morning, big fella."

He waved over his shoulder and closed his door carefully behind him.

Delayed, Wyatt said, "...Night."

No answer from his blank doorway.

He pulled his shirt off over his head with a sigh as he went into the bathroom and tossed it to the side—a problem for Sober Wyatt to deal with in the light of day. The pants followed after and he made his pit stop—forgot to brush his teeth but by the time he remembered he was already cozy in bed under his blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i was gonna do an in-between chapter but i realized i didn't have enough and i just cut it so   
> lol  
> here's this
> 
> Parts of this chapter MAY be familiar! This other (explicitly horny) fic I posted ([obvious](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288288)) is in fact a deleted scene from this chapter. obvs I changed the direction I was going, down to a few recycled lines lol
> 
> peter being a lightweight is my favorite headcanon. I just love the idea of him having these super powers and all this endurance and shit but getting totally sloshed from just a couple of drinks. also I guarantee you peter hates the bougie restaurant choice but who is he to turn down free food and drink on the FF's/shulkie's dime? 
> 
> bench booth seats: but with regular rectangular tables also wood.
> 
> If you're curious about their drinks, i wrote way too much about them for someone who doesn't drink: [LINK](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1e60y6Eyci6sLOHtFuU5YHyXq8iAgVdszbp9r7ga7fqk/edit?usp=sharing)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have another heavy-handed dream sequence

Wyatt knew he was dreaming, somewhere in there.

Didn't really feel like it, though.

He was in Oklahoma—he just _knew_ this to be true. Felt it. Standing at the edge of a lake under thousands of stars like shimmering dust. Looking out on the ripples of cold, clean, clear water with a campfire burning just within reach. A tent was pitched nearby, and an ATV parked just up the way.

Out in the water, there was Johnny. Radiant in the cool moonlight, silvery-gold and pale, laughing.

"Come here!!"

Wyatt dragged his shirt off and it dematerialized.

This was his younger body, he noted dimly as he waded into the lake. College days, defined and sharp and narrow-waisted, waxed within an inch of his life. Johnny didn't seem to notice or care, beaming as he half-walked, half-swam to meet Wyatt in the shallows, firelight sparkling in his eyes.

"Hey." Johnny reached up to loop his arms around Wyatt's neck, hanging from him. "Water's cold."

Wyatt pulled Johnny up, and with him the water level. A strange shift in the world around him, as Johnny's bare legs locked around his waist underwater and their lips met. In his head he knew Johnny was hot, smoldering, but he didn't actually feel cold or hot at all.

The water kept rising, slowly, the darkness going liquid and wavering as he and Johnny stood kissing.

No more shallows—nothing under his feet, the water slipping up over his face, but all he could do was kiss Johnny endlessly, like a dying man in need, losing his breath to the lake and Johnny's lips 'til the edges of his vision started to fade and his chest began to hurt—

Wyatt woke up with a hoarse grunt, and inhaled sharply.

He lay in bed, heart racing, breathing hard.

His head pounded.

He stared at the shadows obscuring the ceiling.

Quiet.

A few seconds later Wyatt's phone buzzed.

He heaved a sigh and fumbled for it without opening his eyes—almost dropped it on his face.

What time was it?

Dawn, just about, peeking through the curtains. And here, a bright-and-early text from Jen. Just a link to Twitter. which she had somehow managed to format without a preview.

" _Baby, do you have something to tell me? ;)_ "

Wyatt rubbed his face with a sleepy grumble.

A quick tap and at first it seemed harmless. Just some random person on twitter—

_I thot WW was @BigGreenGuns man???? They break up?_

Oh, great. The gossip machine.

Wyatt sighed and scrolled up to see the inciting tweet, and the sight brought the previous night crashing in through the fog of his hangover. (He was never going to drink again.)

It was two dreamy, hazy photos of himself and Johnny caught up in each other, from earlier. One shot of them simply close and smiling, leaning into each other's space. The other, their lips touching, haloed in steam and refracted light from the streetlamps. Both pictures a little dark, underexposed, but fairly clear despite that.

The caption: _Spotted outside the Starlet Steakhouse tonight! @TheHum4nTorch and his longtime friend Wyatt Wingfoot sharing a tender moment after dinner! (4/4)_

 _Definitely_ never going to drink ever again.

It was fine. Approximately... only 100 retweets, that wasn't so bad. Wyatt typed out as much to Jen. His face wasn't even particularly visible—hell, Johnny wasn't all that recognizable either. Not in that lighting, not with the 80's movie-style ambience of evaporating snowflakes. They could probably claim it was simply a very similar looking couple, a publicity stunt fabricated by the prowling paparazzi.

Jen's rebuttal?

" _Check the rest of the thread, sweet cheeks_."

In the past few years, Wyatt had... perhaps unfortunately... become accustomed to occasional pictures of himself floating around the internet, in the company of celebrities such as Johnny and his family, and Jennifer, of course—green and huge as she was. Obviously, quite a few people even knew his name, and the tabloids had recently picked up on the fact that he lived with the Fantastic Four again, after a stint with just Johnny in the others' absence.

But normally, despite the invasion of privacy, the photos were one-and-done, never flew too high on the radar, all mundane things like lunch or a baseball game. Hell, half the time Wyatt was barely even in them, more often a bit of his arm or the back of his head the only details visible as the pics focused on Johnny or Jen. This, though. A dozen photos of their group during dinner and drinks, split into a few tweets (including the one of them kissing). And maybe it was the hangover bumbling in his brain, maybe he just never looked closely at any of those pictures until now but...

" _You're one lovesick puppy._ "

He rubbed his forehead with a scowl. Texted Jen back, "Lighting."

In the back of his head, he could imagine her laugh (low and sweet), watching the little dots jump as she typed.

Just one word.

" _Wyatt._ "

She was right. He knew she was right. He knew it. He was lovestruck, a fool, flirting with Johnny, flushed from drinks and dinner and smiles. He'd forgotten himself entirely. Forgotten to keep everything tightly wrapped up.

Over a decade spent convincing himself he'd finally gotten over Johnny and then every time he'd see him smile and it would all come flooding back in.

He'd kissed Johnny.

Wyatt groaned and put his phone back, ignoring the little buzz of another text. He buried his face in his pillow and drew his blanket up over his head—exposing his toes—and pretended he would be able to fall back asleep any time soon.

***

As expected, he could not sleep.

Wyatt slipped out of bed at around 8 am and immediately brushed his teeth, less out of a responsibility to dental care and more to feel like a person as opposed to some kind of plague-infested zombie. By the time he got out of the shower, he almost felt normal. Key word being "almost."

Sure, one might argue that bed at midnight and waking at seven thirty wasn't _so_ bad, but considering Wyatt normally either slept until noon or went to bed right after dinner... He felt a little wrung out. He also didn't normally down four negronis, a hard lemonade and two grasshoppers the night before.

He took his time shaving and moisturizing—the aftershave bracing and sharp—and stared at himself in the mirror.

On the one hand, he'd looked better.

He combed his hair back and considered.

On the other hand, he'd also looked worse, like back in college when he accidentally went entire days without eating and studied until he passed out because anything less than 100% would have been a disappointment.

Wyatt sighed.

At least he was past that, these days.

Mostly.

He dressed quickly, just a pair of sweats and an old, faded sweatshirt.

In the kitchen, he found Sue leafing through a mystery novel while eating breakfast. She spared him a smile and a "Good morning, Wyatt," and turned her attention back to her seemingly levitating book.

He gave her a nod and a "Morning," on his way to the fridge.

Just like every weekend, there was a plate in there with aluminum foil and Wyatt's name in Johnny's big, loopy handwriting, the cross of the T's bisecting the entire word in one flamboyant swoop. He smiled to himself, and went about reheating the leftover waffles as he peeled the note from the foil. A piece of paper folded in half, with a message inside, as it turned out.

_Hey, mister, I want to talk to you. I'll be in the garage most of the day, so there's no rush. I put extra cinnamon in the way you like – Johnny_

The toaster dinged and Wyatt lingered looking at the note just a moment. He could smell the cinnamon in the waffles, and he stuffed the note into his pocket with a warmth in his chest. That and a turn in his gut that he couldn't be sure was only from hunger or a lingering hangover. He rubbed a hand across his face and set up his breakfast at the table. Sue had finished, and she stood with her plate as he sat with his, tucking her book under her arm on the way out.

"See you later, Wyatt."

***

Wyatt took his time, certainly. He distracted himself deliberating over which shade of green pants to wear, put on a Metro cardigan he'd gotten senior year, realized he looked like a Christmas tree, and went back to change his pants to plain khakis. Much better. Now he just looked like a Target employee instead. He rubbed his hands up his face with a sigh and gave up.

"Shoot," He turned right back around at the bedroom door and changed his pants to black.

After all, if Johnny was in the garage—well, Wyatt didn't want to ruin his lighter colored pants if something were to happen.

...Like some kind of... oil tank explosion.

One never knew, with the Fantastic Four.

Wyatt took a deep breath and finally headed downstairs.

He put his shoes on at the door to the garage, took another deep breath, and pushed the door open as quietly as he could.

It took him a moment. The stereo was blaring late 90s pop, and way across the garage—there was Johnny, wearing an oil-stained white t-shirt and old overalls, huddled under the hood of a clean white car. He didn't seem aware of Wyatt's presence, distractedly rubbing the toe of his sneaker up his other ankle as he poked around inside whatever his current project was. It was half-covered in a bright green tarp, only the front just visible with its bubbly headlamps...

Decidedly familiar.

Wyatt stopped a few feet away, looking at that chrome bumper and the sleek curves he had grown up with.

It took a moment for Johnny to finally notice him, but he straightened up, running a hand through his hair as he turned around and—

"Oh!" Johnny jumped—smacked a hand to his chest, eyes wide. "You _scared_ me!"

Wyatt tilted his head, looking at that white Ferrari Dino—he knew he must have looked like he was a thousand miles away but he couldn't help it. He finally raised his eyes to meet Johnny's, frowning slightly, just... questioning.

Johnny's eyes flicked to the car and back, and he reached for the stereo remote so he could turn the music off.

Suddenly it was very quiet.

"Um..." Johnny gestured stiffly, and settled with his hands on his hips, eyes downcast. "Surprise?"

Wyatt swallowed around the tightness in his throat. Ventured for, simply, "Johnny...?"

Johnny wrinkled his nose, torn somewhere between a grin and a grimace, and nodded to the car. "It—well, you know." He huffed out an awkward laugh, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "I was gonna wait until your birthday, but I guess it's too late for that now."

Wyatt closed the last few strides between him and the car, and pushed the green tarp up and over until it fell to the pale concrete floor with a rush of noise. He ran his palm across the smooth white top of the Ferrarri he'd grown up in, like new, and let out a breath that startled him in its shaking. He pressed his palm flat against the roof and looked at Johnny. "This was destroyed... _years_ ago, I thought."

"Yeah, well..." Johnny scuffed his foot against the ground. "I've been working on it for a while. When I didn't have other things going on. It got put on the backburner for..." He crossed his arms, all but hugging himself. "A while."

Wyatt stepped toward him. "Johnny..."

"I rebuilt it from scratch!" Johnny swept his arm toward the popped hood, animated, with wide eyes. Earnest. "Look, look," He stepped away from Wyatt just as Wyatt stepped toward him, and slammed the hood shut. Popped the driver's door open. "I fixed it up with new upholstery and a custom interior so it's easier for you to get in and out and you don't have to be all scrunched up like you used to, so hopefully it's more comfortable—And look—" He hurried around, back to the front. Patted the closed hood. "It's all electric now, all green, a lot more efficient!" Back to the driver's door, a frantic little dance. "And I found the original Dino badge in the rubble, though it's kinda scuffed, but I buffed it up as good as I could and I put it on the gear shift as—as a reminder, you know—but the regular badges I got mint along with most of the rest of the parts, though I tried to salvage as much of the original as I could—"

Wyatt cut off his nervous rambling with a tight, squeezing hug.

Johnny was still for a moment. But after the briefest hesitation his arms came up around Wyatt's back, and he fisted a hand in Wyatt's sweater.

"Thank you so much..." Wyatt's voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper, as he pressed Johnny to his chest. "You have no idea how much this means to me..."

With a soft, slightly breathless laugh, Johnny said, "I think I can guess?"

Just a few seconds longer, Wyatt held him tight. But eventually he had to pull away with a deep breath, the hot prick in his eyes unpleasant. He blinked back his more vulnerable emotions and settled his hands on Johnny's shoulders with a slight squeeze.

"Thank you."

Standing there, Johnny placed one of his own hands over Wyatt's much larger one, and smiled. "Don't mention it, buddy."

"I'm sorry, about last night."

Johnny's smile faltered almost imperceptibly. But he spread it into a wide, plastic grin. "It's fine." He gave the back of Wyatt's hand a pat. "We all make mistakes."

Mistakes—

Wyatt shook his head, frowning. He brought his hands up to Johnny's face, to cup his jaw—he looked so small, there, suddenly.

"No," Wyatt closed his eyes, letting out his air in a controlled sigh. "No, it wasn't a _mistake_ , I—"

Johnny stepped back, out of Wyatt's grasp. Stiff. Uncomfortable. "It's fine, okay?"

Wyatt wanted to follow that step. Take him in his arms again, just hold him right up close to his heart and never let him go—

"...Okay."

***

The car was beautiful. Ran beautifully, of course, as a Johnny Storm production. But the quality of the upholstery, the smooth softness of the white suede cover on the steering wheel... The rich caramel and deep forest green of the seats, with the back of one carefully stamped and painted with Johnny's personal seal of approval—half initials, half flame, pearlescent white.

Johnny had shown him, after their awkwardness—"If you look closely on either side of the keyhole here," He'd pointed at the rim of the trunk. "I painted it."

So he had, the ghost of white-on-white pearlescent filigree, in carefully striped flames that caught the light only from the perfect angle. A nearly-secret mark of his craftsmanship, while retaining the car's original character.

Wyatt sat, now, in the driver's seat, with the engine off. Just running his hand over the steering wheel. There was so much more room inside—room for his legs, room for his head and his shoulders. How Johnny had managed that, he had no clue. He reached over—trailed his finger across the cracked badge set into the gear shift. Familiar. A piece of his life, from childhood, through adolescence, past college. He wrapped his hand around it with a sigh.

He started the engine—the sound, so completely different, yet the movements second-nature at this point. He'd driven this thing for at least ten years, all over Tulsa, and New York City. Everything was different, now, about the car and about his life. Half his family was dead and he'd been through a thousand adventures and Johnny's touch was all over this Ferrari. Yet some things remained the same. He was in love with his roommate, the white paint on his hood gleamed, and the sun shone.

Much as he loved driving, getting out of the city during the lunch rush was... a mistake. And while he'd spent a good time in New York off and on through his adulthood, he wasn't a local and he didn't know it like the others did, so he found himself trapped in a crush of cars for a lot longer than he'd planned. Not that he'd _planned_ at all.

He just needed to get out, see some trees, be alone. Somewhere he could just... think.

About all this.

The traffic cleared eventually, the sky much darker with clouds than when he'd left, and finally, finally, he sped up headed north in earnest with his windows rolled down and the cold afternoon air filling his Ferrari.

Speeding alongside Clear Creek, he let his mind wander.

Thought about his sisters, his resignation as Council Chairman, his students, his late grandparents... Thought about his stint in law school, just to impress the woman he had once been in love with in the hopes they might get back together... (Not that he didn't still love her; he always would, and he knew she'd always love him too.) How at home he felt with the Fantastic Four even when he missed Oklahoma so badly he thought he might collapse. So drawn between two places, two families. Not just Jen, but Johnny pulling him into his orbit like a sun, as well. Like he'd known him his whole life from the moment they met to now—in reality... just over fourteen years.

Wyatt slowed to a stop in the white afternoon light, among the trees of the Catskills.

A familiar place—he and Johnny had come out here once or twice before to camp together. Just the two of them, alone under the stars.

Of course, that was a few years ago. Back then Johnny had been so lonely and frustrated with the Fantastic Four broken up. Wyatt wondered, as he looked up at the overcast sky, if it might be different now—if they came here now, would Johnny be nearly so homesick, or would the return of his family last year have left him capable of being alone out here in the woods and the low mountains...

Alone with Wyatt.

Or had he screwed that up?

Wyatt took a deep breath. It smelled like rain, that metallic dirt tang on the breeze, with heavy clouds threatening the horizon, lit from behind by the winter sun. He wrapped himself tight in his jacket and stepped out into the breezy daylight.

For a while, he sat on the ground looking up at the sky with his back against the side of the Ferrari, as the clouds moved in and the wind picked up. A far-off roll of thunder whispered in as the rain began to fall, and even then he still sat with his face turned up to the breaking sky, despite the freezing temperature dragging shudders up his Oklahoma spine.

But rain dripped down the back of his neck and he shivered violently, so he stood finally. Closed himself into the dark, dry interior of his car, stripping out of his damp jacket as he cranked up the heat, and listened to the rain hiss down against the windshield. He should have brought an umbrella, he supposed, or a blanket. But again... it wasn't as though he'd planned this outing.

"Wingfoot, you really are a fool..." He sighed and leaned back in his seat. Just peaceful, alone; quiet thunder not quite nearby as his shivers subsided to the gentle whisper of the heater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter may be familiar—It used to be the first chapter of this fic and I had actually posted it at one point but I deleted it as I did some renovating to the story. So now it's here!
> 
> in my head I'm picturing the metro college sweater kinda like this old fresno state sweater, but with green instead of blue, or maybe black, or a little green logo or something. red, green, black and white.  
> [](https://www.ebay.com/itm/Vintage-California-Fresno-State-Bulldogs-V-Neck-Sweater-Large-Striped-Mens-/323728102811)
> 
> 14 year time frame going with the assumption that johnny and wyatt met when they were eighteen-ish and now wyatt is 32 and johnny is.... 32 in earth years but technically at least 34 if you factor in the negative zone.


	5. Chapter 5

Johnny was avoiding Wyatt.

Busy as a bee, no matter what. Carefully scheduled around Wyatt so that when he came home, Johnny was out—with the kids, on a mission, with Spider-man, shopping, taking one of his projects out for a spin. The list went on. He woke early, as always, leaving breakfast in the fridge with a WW on the top for Wyatt, and went to bed the second he got home. Always, "I'm bushed, see you tomorrow." or "Sorry, Wyatt, maybe later—I'm just really tired." That, or else he disappeared again for some mysterious errand or public deed.

On and on and on...

Wyatt sighed, pushing the pile of papers he'd just about finished grading to the side. A few kids could expect some higher-than-usual grades thanks to his wandering autopilot brain. He just couldn't stop thinking about how this was all his fault. He'd taken this thing that meant so much to him and ruined it, just like he'd always been afraid of. Just because he'd gotten a little too bold. Just because he'd lost his fragile hold on all those vulnerable, soft feelings he'd hidden so well.

Stupid, foolish, thoughtless—

Wyatt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, centering himself.

In...

Back out...

Stay focused. Don't beat yourself up.

He scrubbed his hands across his face and stood with a squeak from the wheels on his desk chair. He could take a diazepam, watch some TV for a bit, settle down early for the night. Not think so much, his brain all stirred up and fast. Get everything to calm down. Take a more structured look at things after a good night's sleep.

As if he hadn't been doing that already.

Like he always did, putting things off until he could think about them more clearly—which was generally "never"—tying himself up shying away from difficult conversations.

Wyatt got ready for bed, not even seven pm yet, and took his pills with a glass of water in the ultra-sleek and modern bathroom he shared with Johnny. He rinsed his face to cool the warmth darkening his cheeks, and finally took a breath before leaving the bathroom—

"Oh!"

Johnny stood poised as if he'd been about to open the door. Blinked, surprised.

"Sorry, let me just—"

"Wait," Wyatt reached for him before he could scurry away.

They stood there a moment, Wyatt's hand on Johnny's arm. Johnny with wide eyes, flushed slightly, wearing a soft sweater.

"I..." Wyatt pulled his hand back, hesitant. "I want to talk to you."

Johnny crossed his arms, tightly withdrawn, but he didn't run away. "I'm here, we're talking."

Wyatt hadn't thought this through.

His medication hadn't kicked in yet, not for another ten minutes at least, and his heart felt like it was about ready to beat out of his chest. He slid his hand back where a pocket might have been, but of course his pajama pants didn't have pockets, so he just awkwardly slid his hand down his lower back.

"John..." Wyatt stepped closer and Johnny didn't move. Biting his lip so it went white, eyes briefly flickering up to meet Wyatt's but then back down. Wyatt wanted to reach for him, but he kept his hands where they were. "I'm sorry." He breathed out slow, letting his eyes shut as he gathered himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't want this to happen."

Added, "I didn't want to ruin what we had."

When he opened his eyes, Johnny was looking up at him with a truly inscrutable expression.

"I'm so sorry."

He knew he must have come across pathetic, knew his own expression must have been something to pity, but Johnny was one of his closest friends, his dearest companion—

"Hey," Johnny frowned, shrugging a little closer. "Don't—I—" He made a frustrated noise. "You didn't... mess anything up, okay?" He kept one arm around himself but reached up to scratch at the back of his neck. "Don't—don't apologize. I—I—this is—It's not... You didn't do anything _bad_." He frowned deeper. "Okay?"

What was Wyatt supposed to say to that? After all this avoidance, and...

"Okay." Wyatt took another steadying breath. "Okay. I'm s—" He caught himself.

A small smile ticked at the corner of Johnny's mouth. "You're...? Surely you're not _sorry_?"

"I'm... so appreciative of our friendship. You mean a lot to me."

That was fully sincere, of course.

Johnny's smile widened into a crooked grin, and he reached out to give Wyatt a playful knock, right in the center of his chest. "You mean a lot to me, too." He ran his hand through his hair and looked up at Wyatt thoughtfully. "Can we go sit in your room for a minute?"

Wyatt's heart skipped, but he nodded. Gestured toward his open door—

"Oh, wait, lemme go to the bathroom first, but I'll be right there?"

They squeezed past each other, bumping a little, and Wyatt tamped down the warmth that bloomed up the back of his head as he stole into his bedroom. He left the lights on, so he wouldn't give the wrong impression, even though he'd much rather have dimmed them to spare the potential headache, and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Sitting there, he almost felt like he was waiting for some kind of admonishment, like the time he had (mortifyingly) been sent to the principal's office for the crime of questioning his history teacher.

Except, perhaps, this time he actually felt guilt. Like he had actually committed some wrongdoing by the simple mistake of leaning down to make contact. Even though Johnny said he hadn't done anything wrong—but that was just Johnny being nice, no doubt. 

He should have just kept it all inside like he normally did.

"Hey,"

Wyatt started, and looked up at Johnny, whose bare feet made no noise on the floor as he came inside. Johnny glanced around, and sat in Wyatt's desk chair, rolling it a little closer with a rueful smile.

"...Hey." Wyatt sat with his hands on his knees, back straight.

They watched each other for a moment, Johnny's blue eyes searching Wyatt, like he was looking for some kind of answer before he'd even asked a question.

"How long until you pass out?"

A smile broke through Wyatt's buzzing nerves and he said, "I won't pass out."

Johnny leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Really? Valium not enough to knock you out anymore?"

Wyatt shrugged. He smiled a little wider, unable to help himself. "I might get woozy, though, so watch out."

A quiet laugh, very sweet, creased the corners of Johnny's eyes. "Duly noted, big fella."

Again, they watched each other. Well, Wyatt watched his hands, and Johnny stared at him, but the silence felt a little more comfortable. A little gentler. Or maybe his diazepam was kicking in. Wyatt turned his hands over and met Johnny's eyes, probably looking like some kind of sad puppy. Johnny tilted his head slightly, resting his cheek against his fist.

"I'm sorry for avoiding you."

Wyatt shrugged. "I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to speak to me again."

Johnny made a face, and shook his head. "You're my best friend—" He straightened up, leaning back in Wyatt's chair and crossing his arms. "I like being around you."

Wyatt didn't trust himself not to say something embarrassing, so he just nodded.

"I..." Johnny stretched his legs out, biting his lip a little. Poked Wyatt's leg with his toe. "I didn't mean to make you sad." He huffed. "I'm really, really good at doing the wrong thing. So I think I'm an expert on the subject, and... you didn't... you know." He gestured, halfheartedly. "I'm not. When you, uh, you know. That's fine. I just... panicked a little."

With a slight frown, Wyatt nodded—slowly, as he worked through Johnny's fragmented statement. "So, you're saying...?"

"I'm saying... uh..." Johnny looked down at his knees. "I care about you?"

Warm and fluttery and soft—Wyatt cast his eyes downward. "Well, I'm fairly certain I'm in love with you."

He hadn't meant to say that out loud. Well, he had, but... he hadn't. Not exactly.

He looked up, breath held—

Johnny had gone vaguely pink, lips just barely parted as if he had intended to say something. But all that came out was, "Oh."

"I'm not drunk—" Wyatt pressed his hands to his face with a sigh. "My medication hasn't even kicked in yet—" Because if it had he wouldn't feel like he was about to implode. "I don't know what's gotten into me. When I'm around you I just—"

"Wyatt."

He peered out at Johnny from between his fingers.

Johnny, pink all the way to his ears, seemed torn between a few emotions. But he pushed out of the desk chair and reached for Wyatt's hands. Peeled them away from Wyatt's face with soft, warm fingers and held them. He wore a very serious expression, thoughtful, searching Wyatt's face for something.

"You know I—I don't have a good history with... with these kinds of things."

Wyatt's heart sank—it wasn't as if he had a very good relationship history either (or any relationship history, really), as much as he and Jen loved each other. He swallowed his disappointment, turning his eyes back down with a slow nod.

"That—" Johnny let his hands go and pressed his palms, calloused and hot, to Wyatt's face. "I'm not, good with—I want it to be _different_."

 _Different_...

Wyatt frowned, raising his eyes back up to meet Johnny's.

His whole face was flushed, and the way his wavy hair fell across his forehead made Wyatt's stomach fill with butterflies. The softness in his expression, and the way his thumbs traced up Wyatt's cheekbones.

"I—" He ducked his head slightly. "I saw the pictures, on Twitter, and I—I've never... seen someone look at me like that before, and I—" He wrinkled his nose. "I'm so scared of—of being _alone_. But you... this whole time—" He brushed his finger up the side of Wyatt's face, to tuck a loose strand of his un-styled hair back into place. "I guess I never realized—"

He leaned down, hesitant, and Wyatt's heart stuttered.

"I was... scared, you know?" Johnny kept talking, curled over Wyatt, fingers still idly moving. "I'm—" He laughed, slightly. Not exactly amused, so much as pained. "I'm a little broken, but you knew that."

Wyatt shook his head. "You're not broken, Johnny..."

Johnny rested his forehead against Wyatt's, closing his eyes and breathing in. He breathed out slowly, a slight smokiness. "I-I don't want it to be like...like _that_. With you."

He blinked his eyes open. "Broken, I mean."

Close as they were, Wyatt couldn't look away from Johnny. He reached up to cup Johnny's face with a whisper. "I won't let it be like that..." He trailed his thumb across Johnny's cheek. "I promise."

Johnny smiled, turning his head down slightly. Relieved, just by Wyatt's words alone, as if he could see the truth in them before he'd even had a chance to prove it. He looked so pretty when he smiled like that. Twinkling and lovely—their noses brushed. Johnny a little cross-eyed but then, so was Wyatt. A brief hesitation, and Wyatt's breath caught in his throat, stuck there... Johnny kissed him, and he let it all go.

The kiss ended too soon but it was replaced by a hug, Johnny wrapping his arms around Wyatt's neck with a soft noise. It was a little awkward, not quite a good angle, but Wyatt held him as close as he could. Tight—not too tight, not too much to scare Johnny off. Just enough to be firm, as Johnny raised a hand to stroke the back of Wyatt's head.

Finally, Johnny pulled away, his welcome warmth dissipating from Wyatt's arms, leaving him disappointed. But Johnny smiled and smoothed his hand through Wyatt's hair. Wyatt turned into his touch and let his eyes half-close. Calm... serene...

Johnny leaned down for another quick hug. "I'll let you sleep."

Wyatt hummed, but he let Johnny pull away. Watched Johnny walk to the door, and look over his shoulder at Wyatt.

"Goodnight." A shy smile—

Wyatt smiled back and murmured, "I love you."

Johnny ducked his head, but Wyatt could see him blush to his ears and caught a glimpse of his grin as he closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wyatt has anxiety. i don't remember why. i just decided that it made sense to me.
> 
> anyway this is the end of this fic in particular. i think it probably could have used an extra chapter after this but I didn't know what to do without it feeling drawn out so it ends here... tho there are future fics that will follow..... i already wrote one specially for valentine's day. lol


End file.
